An Honest Mistake
by ifonlynotnever
Summary: COMPLETE. Or: Five Arguments John and Sherlock Have Had, and One They Didn't. In which Sherlock and John fight, and John has a tendency to storm off.
1. Disillusion

**Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>Genre:<strong> Gen. Angst?**  
>Word Count:<strong> 156**  
>Notes:<strong> This was something of a… self-challenge, I suppose! Each not-so-perfect drabble was prompted by a line from "An Honest Mistake", by The Bravery. There will be six chapters in total (5+1), so I'll try to post one a day until Christmas.

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><p><em>Disillusion<br>_

"Why are you so shocked? It's not as if—"

"It was the _father's funeral_, Sherlock! You don't think it was a bit inappropriate to barge in during the—"

"Well, what were we supposed to do, _wait_?"

"That might've been a good idea, yeah!"

"No, it would not! We caught a vicious murde—"

"No. No, Sherlock, we didn't. We interrupted a eulogy, told a twelve-year-old girl that the older sister she adored _gutted_ their only parent to protect her, and arrested a sixteen-year-old. That's not—"

"It was imperative to gauge whether—"

"It most certainly was not! She didn't know anything. You _knew_ she didn't. God, Sherlock! People—they don't mean a thing to you. Do they?"

And Sherlock almost says, _That's not true._ Almost says, _You mean something to me._ Almost says, _I thought you understood._

But all that comes out is, "Sociopath, John."

And John leaves.

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><p><strong>Lyric prompt:<strong> _People, they don't mean a thing to you._

Thank you for reading! And remember: Reviews are the ultimate brain food.


	2. Blast Radius

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>Genre:<strong> Gen. Angst? Humor?**  
>Word Count:<strong> 136**  
>Notes:<strong> This is the second of six chapters. Each not-so-perfect drabble was inspired by a lyric from The Bravery's "An Honest Mistake."

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><p><em>Blast Radius<em>

"I swear—"

"I never meant for this," Sherlock cuts in swiftly, wiping the organic matter from his goggles. It's not an apology, not really, but maybe John won't notice.

"—sometimes I wonder why I haven't moved out yet." The doctor rubs at his temples. "I'm not going to ask. I don't want to know. This is… insane."

"Insane? Hardly. The results do appear to violate the accepted laws of—"

"What? No. No! You, Sherlock. You're the one—Oh, god! Did I just step in—?"

"Huh. Wondered where the other kidney got to."

John's lips are white with repressed fury as he toes off his gory shoe and steps carefully out of the blast radius.

"John? Where are you going?"

"Out," is the terse reply.

The door slams behind him.

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><p><strong>Lyric Prompt:<strong> _I swear, I never meant for this._

Thank you for reading! Reviews are very much appreciated.


	3. Jacquard

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>Genre:<strong> Gen. Angst? Humor? Sherlock failing at household tasks?**  
>Word Count:<strong> 154**  
>Notes:<strong> Halfway through! The title of this chapter comes from a brand of wool dye.

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><p><em>Jacquard<em>

"Don't look at me that way, it was an honest mistake."

A muscle jumps in John's jaw.

"An honest mistake," he repeats, his voice tight. "Let me get this straight. You, Sherlock Holmes, the biggest _bloody_ genius on the face of the earth, were trying to... what? Do the laundry? And you botched it up."

"Yes. Obviously."

"No, not obviously. You have ruined. Four. Of my best jumpers."

"Yes, well. They should still fit—"

"_They're pink!_"

"Fire red, actually," Sherlock corrects, remembering the faded label on the glass jar of wool dye he'd put in his pockets a week ago and forgotten to take out.

He opens his mouth to continue, to tell his flatmate that he'd been trying to, well, to... _apologise_ for last week's Exploding Corpse Fiasco, but John is already storming out of the room, arms heaped with pink jumpers he'll never wear again.

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><p><strong>Lyric Prompt:<strong> _Don't look at me that way – it was an honest mistake._

Thanks for reading!


	4. Abhorrent

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of _Sherlock_ or its characters.  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Gen. Humor. Sherlock being socially clueless.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 134  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Only two more to go! Not my favorite, buuuut.

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><p><em>Abhorrent<em>

"—crashing a date, Sherlock! My date! With Laura! Our _first_ date!"

"_And?_ Isn't it better that you found out she was a degenerate gambler before you got a second one?"

John gapes at him for a long moment.

"You—God, you genuinely believe you've done me a favor, don't you?" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You know, sometimes, I forget I'm still awake, because this is... It's like living in a neverending waking nightmare."

"If you're referring to your abhorrent taste in female company, then the answer is _yes_."

That startles a disbelieving bark of laughter from John.

"Right. Right, I get the feeling that was supposed to be flattering, Sherlock, but..."

"But?"

"But it didn't work. At all. I need a drink. Somewhere else. Away from you. Don't wait up."

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><p><strong>Lyric Prompt:<strong> _Sometimes... I forget I'm still awake._

Thanks for reading! Reviews are major love.


	5. All Transport

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>Genre:<strong> Gen. Humor. Sherlock being clueless.**  
>Word Count:<strong> 187**  
>Notes:<strong> Guh, this got done and posted much later than I would have liked. Sorry about that! And it's a bit long. And I took a bit of liberty with the prompt. (But I love it. Typical!)

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><p><em>All Transport<em>

He's not _entirely_ sure how it came about this time, but John is… angry. Very, very angry. Horribly angry.

"How many times do I have to say it before you listen?" The furious-anxious-relieved tension rolling off the doctor in nearly-palpable waves is in sharp contrast with the steady, clinical gentleness of his hands as he patches Sherlock up. Again. "You don't run after armed criminals alone, and you _certainly_ don't do it without a weapon of your own!"

Sherlock represses the childish desire to inform his flatmate that he'd been armed with his _intellect_, instead resorting to an even more infantile reply: "You've never said that. Ever. I'd remember."

The noise that comes out of John's mouth is interesting. Strangled rage, Sherlock thinks.

"I have told you—No, you know what. I get it. Everything I say, it just—passes right through you. You pay more attention to _breathing_ than you do to me."

"Hate breathing," Sherlock mutters sharply.

"Fine," John snaps back, slapping an icy-hot pad onto Sherlock's shoulder with rather more force than necessary. "Take care of the rest yourself, then. I'm going to bed."

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><p><strong>Lyric Prompt:<strong> _They move right through you, just like your breath._

Reviews would be fantastic. Much love to all of you who've been reading!


	6. Domestic

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>Genre:<strong> Gen. Humor.**  
>Word Count:<strong> 616**  
>Notes:<strong> Aaah, sorry, sorry! Meant to have this up by Christmas, but it wasn't working and, well. It ended up not what I expected. At all. But now it's finished, and rather longer than the other chapters, sooo. Yep.

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><p><em>Domestic<em>

"Look," John begins testily, setting Sherlock's coffee before him with an expressive clatter of china. "We've talked about this. I can deal with the hoovering and the laundry and the rest of it when we're on a case. You need to think, housework is a distraction, you're saving lives—fine. But when we're not on a case, you _do not_ call me back from work to make you a _cuppa_! For God's sake, Sherlock, caffeine withdrawal is not a life-or-death medical emergency!"

"Is too," the detective replies vaguely, barely seeming to register John's exasperated sigh.

"Impossible. You are... impossible. I'll probably get sacked this time," he mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. He casts an exhausted eye over the living room. "Oh, for—What have you done with this room? Mrs. Hudson's going to have a fit again."

"Don't see why it bothers her. As she repeatedly informs us, she is our landlady, not our housekeeper."

John rolls his eyes and says, mostly under his breath, knowing that Sherlock probably isn't listening anymore, "And I'm your flatmate, not your bloody _wife._"

To which the detective absently replies, "Of _course_ you're not, dear."

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><p>It takes Sherlock five seconds for his brain to register the silence, and another three to catch up with his mouth. He blinks.<p>

"I just said that aloud, didn't I," he says blankly, into the deafening silence.

The first thought to pop into his head is, _Oh. Father used to say that. I've turned into my father. Not good. Must rectify._ The second thought is, _John will disapprove. Explosively. Prior experience suggests that an intense verbal altercation will ensue shortly, following which John will leave—possibly to return to work, more likely to sit in the park—and return shortly after dinner, if he returns at all. Must find someone else to do housework during period of time—likely a week—when John will refuse to do it in protest. Not Mrs. Hudson. Molly? Lestrade? If desperate, homeless network might—_

The noise that breaks the silence comes from John's general direction, but sounds... suspiciously like... a giggle.

No, not a giggle. A snicker? A chuckle? Sherlock is not well-versed in the nuances of laughter (extraneous, for the most part useless information), but he's fairly sure that whatever it is John's doing, he is swiftly devolving into a fit of hysterics.

"Oh, oh god," he says breathlessly, clutching at the back of his armchair. It really oughtn't be as funny as it is, John thinks, but it is, and some of it might be because it's _true_. All those memories of pestering Sherlock to eat or sleep, all those times he's cleaned up experiments or half-finished cups of coffee, all those nights of patching him up, of nagging at him to behave or clean up or stop pickpocketing Lestrade... John wheezes, trying to breathe and laugh at the same time and utterly failing when he sees the look on Sherlock's face.

"You're—Look at you! You're pou—_pouting_! I can't, oh, that hurts, ow, oh..." John braces, half-slumped, against his armchair, and tries to take a few deep, calming breaths.

"I don't understand," Sherlock says loudly, petulantly.

"Nothing. It's nothing. Sorry. Oh... That was a good laugh. Ah..."

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise. "I don't understand what was so funny."

John glances at him, feels the giggles climbing back up his throat. "Look, it's just—I mean, I am, are—aren't I? I'm—Oh, god, I'm Sherlock Holmes'—I'm your _housewife_, oh, I can't—it's too—"

And John can't continue, his body involuntarily curling over the arms clutched around his stomach, giggling-cackling-laughing more than a bit madly as Sherlock looks on, utterly bewildered.

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><p><strong>Lyric Prompt:<strong> _I fuck up, and say these things out loud._

That's the end of _An Honest Mistake_! Thanks for reading, guys! It's been a pleasure!


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